


if you live through this with me

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: "If someone hurt you," Geralt said, "I would like to know. So I can make sure it doesn't happen again."A jagged chuckle shook loose from Jaskier's throat. "That's very kind of you," he said, and took another swig. "Very protective. Unfortunately, the only person who hurt me in this case was my own idiot self."(An (authorized) sequel to BrighteyedJill's "This Was Once a Love Poem", and probably won't make sense without reading that first.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 600





	if you live through this with me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Was Once a Love Poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951680) by [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill). 



> So I read the wonderful "This Was Once a Love Poem", it broke my tiny heart, and I wanted to fix it. There's very little, if any, explicit description of rape and abuse in my story, but extensive discussion of it.
> 
> Thanks to Jill for letting me play in their playground and bounce ideas off them!

Geralt had rarely seen Jaskier in such a genuinely good mood, as they approached Novigrad. Oh, he was always in a good humor, or almost always, full of quips and commentary—sometimes too much for Geralt's taste—but there was often a restless edge to his smiles that Geralt had learned to detect over the years, a sort of delicacy hidden by his bluster that Geralt frankly didn't know what to do with. Mostly he ignored the occasional sour notes and treated Jaskier as though his demeanor were entirely genuine; Jaskier seemed to appreciate that.

But now as they rode for the bardic festival that Geralt had grudgingly agreed to accompany him to—not quite sure why he said yes, except that Jaskier smiled so brightly when he did, and he could use a rest after the last few jobs—now Jaskier was simply alight with happiness, radiating it like a tiny sun. He chattered endlessly as they rode about his likely competition, assessing their strengths and weaknesses with cutting remarks that even Geralt had to crack a smile at once or twice.

The early summer weather was pleasant, and there were far worse things he could be doing than riding Roach down a main road and listening to Jaskier practice his ballads _a cappella_ —his hands being occupied with reins—and by the time they reached the mid-sized town that was their last stop before Novigrad tomorrow, he was in a genuinely good mood himself.

The sun was sinking by the time they arrived, so they stabled their horses at the first inn they saw and went inside to eat. There was something of a crowd, but no musician in attendance, and Jaskier brightened even more.

"What do you know," he said to Geralt as they ate (a rather uniquely spiced roast chicken; Geralt had already resolved to have Jaskier ask about the key ingredient so he could add it to his meager spice kit). "A chance to earn some more money presents itself, before I collect the prize purse in three days."

"Thought you were supposed to be resting your voice," Geralt said, though the protest was only half-hearted; he was enjoying this good mood Jaskier was in, and didn't want to spoil it.

Jaskier shrugged. "I won't do anything strenuous," he said. "Just a short set. It'll be good practice."

Geralt didn't try to convince him further, and before long Jaskier was over at the bar negotiating with the innkeeper. He seemed to reach a satisfactory deal, because he immediately settled himself in an open corner with his lute and cleared his throat before launching into an upbeat tune Geralt had heard once or twice before over their travels together—not one of his new pieces, but something that had never failed to get a crowd clapping along, at least when Geralt was there; it didn't fail now.

The energy from the crowd seemed to light Jaskier up further. He grinned broadly between each tune, tossing out the kind of casual flirtations and winks that Geralt knew meant he didn't intend to take it any further that night, but flirting was like breathing for Jaskier, even without serious intention.

True to his word, he stopped after six songs, apologizing to the uproariously protesting crowd with an explanation that he had a competition tomorrow, and had to preserve his instrument. Someone quite drunk in the crowd started a cheer for good luck, and the less drunk patrons generously joined in, and Jaskier seemed positively to glow as he made his way back over to Geralt and downed the full cup of ale that was waiting for him.

He made it through two refills before lowering his cup and sighing. "Best make an early night of it," he said, and Geralt nodded and rose to accompany him to their room. Jaskier seemed almost high off his performance and adulation, practically floating up the stairs as he hummed quietly to himself.

When they got to the upstairs hallway, the noise from the crowd downstairs dimmed, and so Geralt was able to hear the man approaching behind them. He didn't think anything of it, though, until the man's hand landed on Jaskier's shoulder and spun him around. Geralt tensed, eyes flashing to Jaskier's face to judge his reaction and whether he needed to intervene.

When the hand touched his shoulder, Jaskier was only startled. But when he saw the man's face, the bright joy instantly drained from his own, leaving him pale, eyes wide with instinctive alarm like a prey animal. Immediately Geralt took a step closer to him, letting himself loom as large as he usually avoided doing around humans. The man, who reeked of alcohol, took no notice of him, focused on Jaskier like a sunbeam under a magnifying glass focused on an ant.

"Jaskier," the stranger said, clapping Jaskier's shoulder heartily before thankfully removing his hand; the fierce tension in Jaskier's body relaxed slightly, but only slightly. "Still going by that ridiculous nickname, I see."

"Rolph," Jaskier said, his voice tight but excruciatingly polite as he nodded his head and didn't deliver even a light retort to the insult, which was so unlike him that Geralt felt for a second like he was looking at a stranger. This Rolph was of a similar broad build to Jaskier, but more filled out, perhaps an inch taller. It wasn't enough to explain why Jaskier was practically cowering.

"Still playing at taverns, too," Rolph said with a coarse laugh. "But what's this I hear about you heading to the bardic festival tomorrow?" He reached out and patted Jaskier roughly on the shoulder again, and Jaskier visibly held back a flinch.

"Oh, who isn't going?" Jaskier said, and his voice, at least, held a sliver of strength now. "It's the event of the year, I have to throw my hand in."

Rolph laughed, a booming noise that Geralt could tell Jaskier wanted to shrink from, but—after a brief hesitation—didn't. "Don't be so modest," he said. "I heard you took first place in ballads last year."

For some reason, this didn't seem to lend Jaskier any additional mettle, but rather made his pale face drain even further of color. "Been keeping tabs on me, have you?"

Rolph snorted. "Don't make it sound so sordid, Jaskier. We're old friends, aren't we?"

Jaskier had already been holding himself rigidly still, but at this his spine stiffened until Geralt thought it might snap. "We're not friends, Rolph," he said, each word formed and spoken carefully. For the first time in the encounter, he glanced back at Geralt, as if reassuring himself he was still there. Geralt tried to make an expression that communicated, _Do you need me to get rid of this guy?_ but Jaskier was already looking back at Rolph. He seemed to be assessing Rolph's reaction to his statement, rather as a wounded deer might assess a wolf. Everything about the scenario made Geralt's stomach churn uneasily.

"Not friends!" Rolph cried, affecting insult, though he was still smiling toothily. "After all the good times we had together when we were at school." He took a step closer and Jaskier immediately backed up, but found himself pressed against a wall. Geralt saw him start to tremble, almost invisibly.

Narrowing his eyes, Geralt stepped closer, inserting himself between the two of them. "I don't think Jaskier wants to talk to you," he said, fixing Rolph with a gaze that had sent larger men running. But Rolph was apparently too drunk to know danger when he saw it, and only laughed.

"Well, it's true we never _spoke_ much back at school," he said, and—showing no survival instinct whatsoever—took his eyes off Geralt to meet Jaskier's gaze over his shoulder. "His mouth was usually, shall we say, otherwise occupied." He glanced back at Geralt, grinning, breath awash with booze. "He missed his true calling, you know, using that mouth for singing."

Behind him, Geralt heard Jaskier draw in a small sharp breath, as if he'd been slapped. He'd smelled a touch of fear rolling off Jaskier since Rolph had appeared, but now it flooded his nose until he could smell nothing else. He stepped fully in front of Jaskier and put his hands on Rolph's shoulders, pushing—still lightly, but with clear intent.

"Leave," Geralt said, letting just a touch of a growl roll through his voice.

Rolph, drunk as he was, tensed up as he finally sensed danger. Apparently he didn't sense it very well, though, because he scowled at Geralt and stood there, very much not leaving. "Is he yours now?" he said, and gave a nasty chuckle. "Then you already know what a good fucktoy he is. Hardly need to defend his honor."

Jaskier's breathing had gone short and shallow, the stench of fear seeming to fill the entire hallway. Without further thought—without the usual risk calculation that almost always talked him out of violence against humans—Geralt punched Rolph in the face, using enough of his full strength to hear multiple bones crack.

Rolph screamed, staggering backwards a few steps before falling on his ass. He stared up at Geralt with a mix of fear and rage. "You're the witcher, aren't you," he said, his voice distorted by his broken nose. "Think you can go around attacking real people? I'll tell," he added, like a pouting child, and Geralt rolled his eyes and kicked him square between his splayed legs.

"Get out," he said, as Rolph squalled in pain, clutching his wounded jewels. "Get out of this inn, and get out of town. If I see you tomorrow, I'll kill you."

He wasn't quite sure if he would—if he could get away with it—but apparently his voice held enough sincerity to convince Rolph, who scrambled clumsily to his feet, groaning in pain, one hand clutched to his bloody face and another to his crotch, and vanished down the stairs.

Then there was silence, except for Jaskier's shallow, panicked breathing that didn't seem to be improving much with Rolph's absence. Geralt turned to look at him and Jaskier immediately looked down, not meeting his eyes. "You okay?"

Jaskier nodded, then kept nodding several times, as if he had to remember how to stop. "I'm fine," he said in a thin voice that did not even resemble 'fine'. "Uh, thank you. For getting rid of him."

"Not a problem," Geralt said, uncertain of how to proceed. Ordinarily, after rescuing Jaskier from some kind of danger that left him affrighted but not wounded, Geralt would pat him roughly on the back and let him chatter, the way he did when he was scared, until he calmed down. Jaskier wasn't chattering now, though. He was staring at the wooden slats beneath their feet, still almost as pale as he had been, and stinking of fear that didn't dissipate. He was still trembling, too, a little, and Geralt had no idea what to do to fix it.

It wasn't as if he'd missed the less-than-subtle implications of Rolph's insults. Obviously he and Jaskier had been involved at some point—at school, Rolph had said. Obviously, as well, there was no affection left between them, if there ever had been.

A terrible idea began to tickle at the back of Geralt's mind, but he didn't want to give voice to it, even in his own thoughts. Instead he reached out slowly and obviously and touched Jaskier's arm, relief washing over him when Jaskier didn't pull away. "Let's get to bed. We've got a hard ride tomorrow if you want to get to Novigrad before sunset."

Jaskier shook his head. "I don't think I can sleep after that," he confessed, and then—with evident effort—lifted his head to look at Geralt. "Some vodka might help, though," he added, with a strained grin. 

"Go on and get comfortable, then, and I'll get some," Geralt said, and started for the stairs, only to find Jaskier glued to his side.

"I'll, ah, I'll come with you," Jaskier said. "If you don't mind." He glanced up at Geralt with a wariness in his eyes that Geralt had rarely seen directed at him; it didn't feel good. He just shrugged and nodded, and Jaskier stayed close enough to touch as he went to the bar, paid for the vodka—"the whole bottle," Jaskier interjected, and when Geralt glanced at him in concern, "don't worry, I'll pay you back," as if that were the issue—and went back upstairs. 

When they finally made it to their room, Jaskier seemed to relax a little, but only a little. He sat down heavily on the bed, uncorked the bottle, and took a hefty swig, grimacing as he swallowed and coughing a little.

Geralt sat down in the chair next to the bed, watching him carefully. "Do you...want to talk?" he offered, feeling awkward and unpracticed.

" _No,_ " Jaskier said forcefully. "No, I do not want to talk about Rolph." He stared at the bottle and laughed mirthlessly. "I bet you do, though. After what he said."

Honestly, Geralt did—he wanted to know about whatever had left Jaskier in this state, so he could make it _stop_ —but he shook his head. "Not if you don't want to," he said. "I don't care about what he said."

Jaskier snorted and took another long gulp of vodka. He didn't cough this time. "You don't want to know about my sordid past?"

From the tremble in his voice, Geralt knew he had to answer carefully. "If someone hurt you," he said, "I would like to know. So I can make sure it doesn't happen again."

A jagged chuckle shook loose from Jaskier's throat. "That's very kind of you," he said, and took another swig. "Very protective. Unfortunately, the only person who hurt me in this case was my own idiot self. Rolph and the others just did what I let them."

With a hiccup, he fell back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his free arm. Geralt could smell the acrid scent of tears—just a hint—and that _and the others_ sent a nasty jolt down his spine. He didn't have the slightest clue what to say, and so there was silence for a minute. Jaskier took another long drink, spilling a goodly amount of it down his shirt, and sighed.

"He wasn't lying, you know," he said, his voice rough. "You really don't have to defend my honor. I don't think there's much of it left."

Geralt shook his head, though he knew Jaskier couldn't see him. "He didn't have the right to talk to you like that," he said. "It doesn't matter what you've done, or if you used to be..." He hesitated. "Lovers."

At that, Jaskier let out a harsh braying laugh. "Lovers! That's very pretty, Geralt. A very generous assumption."

"If you weren't lovers," Geralt asked, knowing he shouldn't, "then what..."

"'Fucktoy,' I think was the world Rolph used." Jaskier spat it out like the obscenity it was. "I'll tell you, you know." He sniffled. "I'm drunk enough I can't remember how to stand up, I'll tell you if you ask." 

Geralt wanted, suddenly and desperately, to go sit next to him. To gently lift the bottle from his hand and wrap his arms around him, hold him close, until he stopped shivering and the sharp smell of tears faded. 

"I think," he said carefully instead, "that maybe you need to tell someone."

Jaskier dropped his arm to his side. His eyes were red and glistening as he stared at the ceiling. "That's as good an excuse as any, I suppose," he said, only slurring a little. "Well. Sit back, then, and I'll tell you a tale, Geralt. And if you don't want—" He swallowed thickly. "If you want to leave at the end of it, I won't blame you. I don't come off very well."

Geralt remembered the heavy stench of fear in the hallway and doubted that very much. But all he said was, "He said he knew you from Oxenfurt?"

Jaskier nodded. He was still staring upwards, not looking at Geralt. "It was my first year," he said, and Geralt had to hold back a flinch. He'd been to Oxenfurt many times, and the students always looked so terribly young. "And this fourth-year student, Valdo, he'd sort of...taken me under his wing. Seduced me, I suppose, but he was very nice about it. We were both music students, primarily, though of course you have to study a bit of everything, but we knew we wanted to be bards. He knew I wanted to be a bard. And he had this...this group, that he went with."

In stops and starts, Jaskier unfolded the story to him—how flattered he'd been to be invited to the salon, how he'd prepared his best work to show off—"I was so naive," he said, scoffing at himself, and Geralt's stomach twisted. "And then—well, I didn't get to play." He barked out a bitter laugh. "Valdo got me drunk off my ass, which wasn't too hard in those days, and—" He did glance at Geralt now, searching his face warily for something he didn't seem to find. "They all fucked me. Gods, I was so confused. Such an idiot. And after, Valdo promised I'd make connections, you know, meet the people I needed to meet. Told me that was much more important than my paltry _musical_ skills. And of course I believed him."

Jaskier's voice was bitter, but he also sounded eerily young, as though telling the story had brought him back to that moment. Geralt could picture it clearly—the confusion and disappointment, the eagerness to please. He could picture, too, a Jaskier even younger than the one he'd met ten years ago, barely more than a child, being passed between men like some kind of sick party favor. He rarely felt real anger these days—he was mostly too weary for that—but he felt it now, and fought to keep any sign of it from his face, knowing what conclusion Jaskier would leap to.

So he listened, stone-faced and still, as Jaskier unfolded the rest of his first year at Oxenfurt. How he'd been convinced to neglect his studies and avoid making other friends, how he'd been pimped out to local nobles under the pretense of finding patrons, how Valdo had twisted his hunger for approval to make Jaskier do anything he wanted, all the while convincing him he wasn't good enough to stand on his own.

Not that Jaskier put it quite that way. Jaskier said "naive" a lot, and "stupid," and "gullible"; they all seemed to Geralt rather unkind words for what he actually had been, which was innocent.

When Jaskier—after another heavy swig of vodka, though his hand could barely hold the bottle by now—told Geralt what had happened the night before his vocal recital, Geralt couldn't keep his composure anymore. Jaskier looked at him, startled and clearly a little frightened by the growl that had escaped his throat.

"Geralt," he said, only he was slurring so badly by now it came out _Ger'l_ , "you aren't—you aren't mad at me, are you? I know I said you could leave if you wanted, but I don't want you to go. I'm sorry. I don't have to talk about this, I know it's..." His lip curled in disgust, but Geralt could see in his eyes that it was directed entirely at himself. "I let them do vile things, it's all right if you don't want to listen."

Jaskier had never given much of a damn when Geralt was cross with him. Nor had he ever cared much whether or not Geralt _wanted_ to listen to his rambling on any given evening. It felt like he was seeing the Jaskier from back then, as though telling the story had regressed him to a whimpering whipped puppy, equally hungry for a pat and afraid of a kick.

"I'm not angry with you," Geralt said carefully. "And you didn't _let_ them do anything."

Jaskier gave an unlovely snort, interrupted by a hiccup. "Never said no, though, did I?"

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment, his chest aching with an unfamiliar tightness. This was not a conversation to be having with Jaskier blind drunk. "I'm not angry with you," he repeated, trying to gentle his voice. "Not at all, I promise."

At his words, or his tone, or both, Jaskier relaxed visibly. The half-empty bottle slid from his fingers and hit the floor with a thud, vodka spilling out onto the wooden floor. Jaskier turned his head toward it and frowned. "Geralt," he said slowly, "I think I'm really drunk."

There was a tinge of fear in his voice; it wasn't hard to figure out why. Geralt bit back the rage that wanted to rise in his throat and reached out and squeezed Jaskier's hand. "You are at that," he said. "Let's get you some water before you fall asleep."

Jaskier nodded vaguely as Geralt fetched a full waterskin from his pack and handed it to him, whereupon he stared at it as if he were trying to figure out a puzzle.

"Do you need help sitting up?" Geralt asked.

"Hm," Jaskier said, and considered this for a moment. "Yeah, I think so."

Moving slowly and carefully, Geralt sat on the bed beside him and slipped an arm under his shoulders. He was afraid that Jaskier wouldn't want him near him right now—would be too wrapped up in memories of other men who'd touched him while he was like this—but Jaskier leaned comfortably against him and let Geralt prop him up against the headboard without protest.

"Go on then, drink it," Geralt said. "All of it, or you'll be sorry in the morning."

"Gonna be sorry anyway," Jaskier muttered, but he did as Geralt told him and then promptly laid back down, closing his eyes. He didn't say anything else, and Geralt got off the bed and knelt on the woven mat at the foot of it, preparing for a night of meditation.

A minute later there was a muffled noise of distress from the head of the bed. When Geralt opened his eyes, Jaskier was up on his elbows, eyes red, looking back and forth with confused alarm. When his eyes landed on Geralt he relaxed. "What are you doing down there?"

Geralt wasn't sure how to say _I didn't think you'd want a man to share your bed tonight_ without upsetting him again. "I thought you might want the bed to yourself," he said finally, and Jaskier's face wrinkled in confusion.

"When have I ever made you sleep on the floor?" he said. "Come on and get in, I'm tired."

Geralt acquiesced, and almost as soon as he was settled with his head on the other pillow, he heard Jaskier's breathing settle into its sleeping rhythm, a little deeper and slower for the drink, but the same comforting sound as always. He felt that urge rise in him again to hold Jaskier tight, but he was certain _that_ wouldn't be welcome, and shoved it back down. 

They would have to talk in the morning, he thought, and lay awake for a long time.

—

Geralt blinked out of sleep and immediately registered Jaskier's tight, controlled breathing beside him. He turned his head and saw Jaskier sitting against the headboard, his knees pulled up to his chest, face blank as he watched Geralt. 

"I suppose you want to talk," Jaskier said dully.

"Not especially," Geralt admitted, sitting up, "but I think we need to."

Jaskier shrugged, the motion emphasizing how small he had made himself, arms wrapped around his knees. "What's to be gained? I told you all the awful things I let Valdo and the others do to me, and now you know I'm—" He shook his head and swallowed. "You know what I am. You can go if you want."

Geralt didn't have the slightest idea how to start this conversation, but he knew what to say to that. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not drunk anymore," Jaskier said, still in that same flat voice. "Although I do have an outstandingly belligerent headache. But...you can be honest with me."

"When have I ever not been honest with you? I'm not leaving." He hated the way Jaskier was looking at him, the wary waiting gaze, as though at any moment Geralt might lash out and hurt him. "You don't disgust me," he tried. "You didn't make me angry and you didn't disgust me and—and you shouldn't blame yourself."

The laugh that escaped Jaskier's pressed lips was barely more than a cough. "Last night is a little blurry, I'll admit, but I distinctly remember telling you that I never fought back. Never said stop, never struggled, never even said no. Not sure who else to blame."

Geralt hesitated. Gods, he was bad at this sort of thing, but the thought of letting Jaskier go on like this was unbearable. "Sometimes...people make it hard to say no," he said slowly. "From what you told me, it sounds like you said it in every way you could. They just didn't listen."

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath, let it out shakily. "I..." He tucked his head down against his knees, hiding his face, as his heartbeat spiked. Geralt wanted desperately to reach across the foot between them and touch him, but he'd never been less certain of his welcome.

"There are things you shouldn't have to say no to," he said, after Jaskier had been silent for a minute, save for his hitching breath. "Things people just shouldn't _do._ And then he made you feel like—like you wouldn't be anything without him. And you believed him because you were young, and you wanted people to like you. That's...that's _normal_ ," he went on, watching Jaskier carefully for any reaction.

Jaskier gave a muffled sniffle, then looked up at Geralt with wet eyes. "You would have said no," he said. "Even when you were young. You wouldn't have let anyone talk you into—that kind of thing. Not if you didn't want to."

It wasn't what Geralt had expected at all, and he looked past Jaskier for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. The things he'd failed to say no to were beyond counting, but Jaskier didn't need to hear about them now.

"I don't...know that," he said finally. "I remember wanting very badly to please the instructors, and the older witchers. And there were...abuses, sometimes. But I wasn't alone like you were."

That seemed to puncture something; Jaskier's face crumpled and he pressed his head to his knees again, breathing short, fast, jagged breaths. "I just," he said, muffled but clear enough to Geralt's ears, "I just wanted...I didn't want..."

"I know," Geralt said quietly, and Jaskier started to cry in earnest. "Of course you didn't. I know."

He held out for maybe half a minute before he couldn't stand it anymore and shifted closer to Jaskier, slinging one clumsy arm around him, ready to withdraw in an instant if it was unwanted. But Jaskier only leaned against him, pressing his face into Geralt's chest and grabbing at his hand as Geralt drew him closer. For a while they sat like that, until eventually Jaskier's sobs slowed to a stop. Geralt thought perhaps he was supposed to let go now, but he didn't, and Jaskier didn't pull away.

"I don't want you to think of me like that," Jaskier said after a minute, when his breathing was close to normal again. He lifted his head and met Geralt's eyes with his own, red-rimmed and swollen. "As the person all those things happened to. Like I'm damaged, like...like this _explains_ things."

"I don't," Geralt said in perfect honesty. "I mean, I'm probably going to think about it sometimes. But it's not who you are." Jaskier was the most self-created person Geralt had ever met; he had always admired him for it, and admired him more now.

"I thought about changing my name again," Jaskier said. "After Valdo and his group left Oxenfurt." He laughed, and it was only a little broken. "But then I thought, fuck it. Why should I have to? And I worked so hard—" He sat up, wiping at his eyes, but didn't let go of Geralt's hand. "My professors didn't know what to do with me. They'd all written me off. And I made friends, and—I was _good._ Top honors, all that. I had so many offers for court appointments by the time I graduated."

"But you didn't take them."

Jaskier shook his head. "I didn't want that anymore." Left unspoken was that he _had_ wanted it once; had wanted it very badly. "I wanted, you know, adventure. Write real songs, for the people, not some stuffy court full of nobles and fakes. So I left, and..." He glanced at Geralt and smiled, and squeezed his hand, and Geralt felt himself smiling back, though it sat strange and foreign on his face.

"I'm glad," Geralt said. "That you left. That..." The words were difficult to form, but Jaskier waited patiently. "That we met."

Jaskier's smile widened to a grin, at odds with his puffy red eyes. "Only took you ten years to admit it," he said. "It's okay, though. I knew. You're not half as mysterious as you think you are."

"Hm," Geralt said, for lack of any better response. This seemed like an appropriate moment to let go of Jaskier's hand, but he didn't feel particularly inclined to do so. Still— "We should get going," he said, a touch more gruffly than he meant to. "If we ride too hard to get to Novigrad, you'll be tired tomorrow when you perform."

"We wouldn't want that," Jaskier agreed, and gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go and getting up. 

The common room was much less crowded this morning; they ate porridge with honey in peace as Jaskier settled his payment for last night with the innkeeper's sleepy-eyed daughter, who yawned with every other word. It wasn't until they were out on the road, though, and fully alone, that Geralt ventured to ask, "Have I heard what you'll be playing?"

Jaskier had been idly humming, and he stopped and glanced at Geralt with eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. "Most of it," he said. "The finale is going to be that song about the noonwraith and how her lover puts her to rest, the one I've been practicing? It's the best one, I think. Won't be a dry eye in the house."

Geralt had heard it only in snatches as Jaskier worked on it in the evenings—a haunting, romantic tune quite at odds with the monstrous reality of facing a noonwraith under the midday sun. But Jaskier was right; people would like it. Love it, probably.

"I expect you'll win with that one," he said, and Jaskier beamed. It was almost the same radiance he'd shone with yesterday, and Geralt's heart clenched in his chest to see it.

"Do you think so? You've never heard the whole thing, though. Here, let me give you a preview." And with a quick clearing of his throat, he began to sing. It lacked nothing for the absence of his lute; his voice seemed to ring clear across the meadows on either side of the road. 

Geralt rode on, listening as the bits and pieces he'd heard over campfires coalesced into a jewel-like whole. _I want this,_ he thought, _always this,_ and the day was too fine to scold himself for it just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/) for Witcher shitposts, WIP updates, occasional prompt fills, and just because I very much need people to talk to about this stupid, stupid show. :D? :D? Also, if you would like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/632454602393042944/if-you-live-through-this-with-me-somestars)


End file.
